It's All Fine
by AkoyaMizuno
Summary: Sherlock never asked what happened in the hours between John being kidnapped and the events at the pool. It occurs to him, days after the fact, that he probably should have.
1. It's All Fine

**It's All Fine**

Sherlock never asked what happened in the hours between John being kidnapped and the events at the pool. It occurs to him, days after the fact, that he probably should have.

Isn't that what people do?

But Sherlock isn't _people_. He doesn't have to ask, because he knows that John is fine. Whatever did, or didn't, happen in those hours doesn't matter. John is fine. It was all there in that small nod that John had given him at the pool. And even if he lied – _he didn't_ – Sherlock would have been able to tell in a second. Certainly there had been no physical harm (surprising, it meant they had taken John completely unawares), _that_ would have made itself clear almost instantaneously.

But – and this is the part Sherlock's brain keeps whirling back to – there are other kinds of harm than just the physical. And John is a living, breathing example of the strange ways in which the brain deals with being hurt.

Except... John is _fine_. He _is_. He'd said so, and Sherlock had seen it for himself. Had demanded confirmation while ripping that blasted, bloody Semtex vest away from John's chest and John had _joked_ about it of all things and everything had been perfectly fine and _normal_ (as normal as it gets with a consulting detective and his blogger) ever since.

In fact they'd been better than fine. What had happened at the pool had solidified Sherlock and John into a single unit, a team that worked better than Sherlock could have ever imagined or hoped for, even when he'd first recognized John was his friend (And _that_ had happened rather quickly, hadn't it?).

So it's infuriating, absolutely _infuriating_, that Sherlock's mind keeps going back there. To the pool. And it's not about analyzing it or about Moriarty, it's about _John_ and Sherlock is obsessing over every little flickered change in expression John had that night.

John had been in that still place of his, that tense, waiting readiness that Sherlock observed in him whenever things were truly dangerous. _That_ was John, the true John, standing there and prepared for anything, to _do_ anything he had to.

And that, more than anything, had told him John was fine. That John _is_ fine.

So why, _why,_ won't his normally reasonable, logical mind accept it?

It makes Sherlock hiss in frustration.

"Alright there, Sherlock?" John calls out from the living room.

"_Fine_," Sherlock says testily, because he is and John is and _it's all fine_.

"Right," says John. "Got it. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

And Sherlock ignores him and goes back to his microscope and his blood samples and a world where his own brain doesn't try to fight him.

Because John hasn't spoken about it (except, possibly, to Lestrade, and Sherlock could easily get his hands on the file but he won't, he _won't_ damn it) and if John isn't going to speak then Sherlock sure as hell isn't going to ask.

Besides, it's _fine_. He knows it is. That John is.

He just needs to convince himself.


	2. It Really Doesn't

_Author's Notes: You asked. Though I think Sherlock's was better._

**It Really Doesn't**

John assumes Sherlock already knows about what happened before the pool. What happened when Moriarty kidnapped him. Because, honestly, it's _Sherlock_ and if he didn't deduce it then he almost certainly read the police report (nicked it from Lestrade's desk most likely).

And it's all a bit silly really because John certainly isn't disappointed that Sherlock hasn't – won't – ask. (Except that he _is_ disappointed and he should really, really know better by now.) This is Sherlock. Sherlock who can talk and talk and talk but very rarely _communicates_.

Nor does Sherlock ever see that someone else just might _need_ to talk. Might need to be listened to.

John has thought about it a few times. Thought about just opening his mouth and _telling_ him. But what's the point in talking if Sherlock's not going to listen?

And John really needs him to listen.

Because he knows, _knows_, that if he tried to say it and Sherlock didn't listen? Yeah, that would be a whole lot of _not good_. It would ruin everything, and John just _cannot_ handle that. Sherlock... Sherlock is a whole lot of things that are just a bit too important to John to risk on something that's really not that important.

It's _really_ not.

Besides, it's all fine, isn't it?

Him and Sherlock. Sherlock and him. The consulting detective and his blogger. It was all just... fine.

They work together like some well oiled machine now. (Because, really, there are some things you just _cannot_ share without it bringing you together.) And John's... happy. Even if Sherlock is sometimes an ass and an idiot and doesn't _think_ (doesn't _ask_).

Its been a very long time since John was happy.

So who cares if Sherlock's silences are loud or if John occasionally wants to scream at him to _just bloody ask already_?

It's obvious that Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to listen. And why would he when he _obviously_ already knows? Why would he ever need to listen to John? (And why would John need to be heard? Silly that. Odd thing, the human mind, and, honestly, John just wants his to _shut up already_.)

And John's not too sure that he could really talk about it anyway, even if, by some miracle, Sherlock did ask. What would he say?

They – the two of them – had said more with silences and looks and jokes that night than John can ever hope to properly put to words. And the _before_... well, that's just the before, right? The pool matters. What happened before the pool... not so much.

Really.

It doesn't.

And –

"John?" Sherlock asks.

"Hm?" John replies.

"John... I – you..." and Sherlock trails off into silence.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John mutters, irritated.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Nothing. It's...nothing," he says. And walks away.

And that's fine.

Because really?

It doesn't matter.

It _doesn't_.

John just wishes he could believe it.


	3. Words

_Author's Notes: Okay. Seriously done this time. This was supposed to be a one shot in the first place. It is, of course, quite different than the first two. But once again, you asked. And I got inspired. So here we are._

_In other news, diction is one of the great joys in my life. I hope I send you all scrambling for dictionaries! XD_

**Words**

Mycroft, Sherlock thinks, is an insufferable bastard.

He has known that for a long time, his entire life really, but there is something to be said for irrefutable proof and he has it here in front of him in the form of a file folder.

_God damn you, Mycroft, you sanctimonious ass._

_How_ his brother knew precisely how much this particular topic had been on his mind lately is irrelevant. That he felt the need to _act_ on it is something else.

He'd even dropped it off himself while wearing that impossibly irritating not-smirk of his.

Sherlock hasn't opened it yet. It sits on a side table while Sherlock sits in his chair and glares at it on the unlikely chance that he has gained the psionic ability to make things burst into flames (pyrokinesis, Sherlock had deleted the word previously but researches it on his phone for the simple satisfaction of it).

He cannot quite convince himself to burn it using more pedestrian methods.

It would be so easy to open it and read the words. The ones that would be printed there in black and white, simplistic English.

Words that would provide answers. John's words.

Sherlock intensifies his glare.

And this is how John finds him, hours later, after his shift at the surgery. Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his knee bouncing with pent up frustration, and glaring at a completely innocuous folder.

"Right," John murmurs after getting a look at him. "How long ago did Mycroft come by then?"

Sherlock blinks in genuine surprise and pleasure. "Excellent, John! How did you know?"

John spares him an amused glance while putting away his coat. "You've got your 'Mycroft is an arse' face on."

Well. It's hardly an impressive piece of logical deduction but it's so very _John_ that Sherlock chuckles. "This morning, about an hour after you left."

John whistles in appreciation. "That long? This must be a good one then. What did he want?"

"To further prove his status as the most inescapably _annoying_ person in my life. He even manages to beat out Anderson."

John gives him a _look_. "Sherlock, have you ever thought about _trying_ to get along with your brother? Just once?"

"No," Sherlock says simply. "Why would I do that?"

John shakes his head and leaves it at that. It's none of his business. Besides, truth be told, he finds Mycroft annoying too.

This is as far as the conversation goes for the moment while John makes tea and Sherlock resumes his glaring. It is not until after John has placed a mug in front of Sherlock and sat down in his own chair that it continues.

"So?" John prompts eventually.

Sherlock responds with practiced blankness.

John appears unimpressed at Sherlock's feigned obliviousness. "What's in the folder?"

"I haven't opened it," Sherlock dissembles.

"Not what I asked," John says immediately.

Sherlock smirks despite himself. John is getting _better_ at that, at spotting the holes in what Sherlock does and doesn't say. Sherlock likes to think it's his influence. "Wonderful, John. You are in rare form today."

"Thank you. The folder?" he asks, not one to be easily dissuaded.

Rather than answer, Sherlock picks up the item in question and all but throws it at John.

His blogger opens it.

And goes very, very still.

John shuts down. All the easy, accessible emotion and thought processes disappear behind a closed-off, eerie calm.

It would be fascinating if it wasn't so damn frustrating.

John carefully lays down his tea and closes the folder. He doesn't, quite notably, hand it back to Sherlock. "You've read it?"

Sherlock scowls. "I _told_ you, John. I haven't opened it. I know what it is, of course, but have no knowledge of the specifics of the content."

John starts. "You don't – you mean you never –"

"Why would I?" Sherlock asks, anger leaking into his voice. "You never told me any of it."

"You never asked!" John snaps. "What? Did the great Sherlock Holmes find something he couldn't deduce? Or was it just not _important_ enough?"

Sherlock freezes. Did John _really_ think that? That Sherlock would care so little? After everything? "I thought ... that is, I believed you didn't wish to speak of it."

"Of course I didn't!" John says. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't have _asked_!"

"That is the most ridiculously contradictory thing I've ever heard!" Sherlock grouses.

John pauses, and then deflates, before giving into helpless chuckles. "It is, isn't it?"

Sherlock picks up his mug and stares into its depths without drinking. "Do you really believe that – that I don't..." he trails off.

Sherlock is normally good with words. But not... not with _this_. So instead he holds onto his mug with both hands, two fingers taping out an uneven rhythm against his will.

"What am I supposed to believe?" John asks heavily. "You call yourself a _sociopath_, and then everything that happened at pool... but then, after, you never _asked_ and I..."

"You wanted me to ask," Sherlock says perceptively. "No, you _needed_ me to ask."

It is a moment of enlightenment, an epiphany. John is _insecure_ of all things. Sherlock looks up and meets John's eyes.

"I'm asking, John," he says. "I'm asking right now. _What happened_?"

John slumps, actually _slumps_, into his chair. "Maybe you should just read it," he murmurs, offering the folder.

Sherlock ignores it. "If I wished to read it I would have already, long before Mycroft could stick his nose into it. I want you to _tell_ me."

"I was hit with a tranquilizer dart," John says quietly. "When I woke up I was in a pitch black room with that... that bloody _vest_ and Moriarty speaking in my ear letting me know _exactly_ what was happening. What would happen if I... failed to do as told."

Sherlock doesn't speak, doesn't interrupt, he simply listens with rapt attention.

"And then there was nothing. Hours and hours of nothing but darkness and white noise coming through the bloody ear piece before Moriarty was talking in my ear again and having me walk out and find _you_ there."

John laughs, one short bark of uncomfortable laughter. "I could barely move. Didn't want to risk setting off the bomb if I tripped or banged it on something. Ended up sitting there in the darkness for ages. And the fucking _white noise_. Thought I was going to go out of my head with it."

John grins shakily. "Bit unimpressive, isn't it? Nothing really happened at all. Wasn't hurt or anything. Just... a whole lot of nothing. And my mind going round the twist with nothing to do and only the situation to focus on."

Sherlock waits for John to pick up his tea again and take a sip before speaking.

It takes longer than it ought to.

"You realize," Sherlock picks his words carefully, "that what you are describing is sensory deprivation. And that it qualifies as a form of _torture_ when a person undergoes it unwillingly."

He is proud of himself for the steadiness of his voice. For not getting up and throwing something breakable against the wall.

But evidently John hears _something_ in his voice that Sherlock doesn't realize is there.

"I'm fine," John says.

Sherlock hesitates. "You are certain?"

"_Yes_," John insists. "I am _fine_, Sherlock. It's not... I'm not... I'm _fine."_

Sherlock releases a slow, measured breath. "Yes. Okay... as long as you are certain."

They sit in complete silence for a long time before John draws in air to speak. And when he does it's just two words.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

Sherlock doesn't ask for what.

He doesn't need to.


End file.
